


thinking out loud

by starkravingcap



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Body Paint, Fluff, M/M, Sleepy Cuddles, Sunsets, steve is a beautiful artist and tony is his canvas
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-26
Updated: 2015-03-26
Packaged: 2018-03-19 16:02:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,133
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3615888
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starkravingcap/pseuds/starkravingcap
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Flecks of gold seem to dance in his eyes, and Steve wonders what they would look like in the New York sunset, lit up by oranges and yellows and the greyness of the shadows. </p><p>Or; Steve is the artist here, and Tony is his canvas.</p>
            </blockquote>





	thinking out loud

**Author's Note:**

> for the beautiful katherine.

“Stay still,” Steve whispers. He brushes stray hair away from the back of Tony’s neck and presses his lips there, soft and gentle, and he pulls back to admire the way that the light streaming in from the window makes Tony’s skin glow. 

“Ha, well, don’t have to worry about that, big guy,” Tony says, and his voice is muffled by the pillow he’s pressing his face into, “My legs are starting to go numb. I think you’ve got me here forever.”

Steve shifts. Tony’s on his front, sprawled across the bed, a sheet pulled up to about his waist. Steve is straddling his legs, hovering over him. The skin of Tony’s back is bare, olive-toned and tanned, glowing in the sunlight that the ceiling high windows let in. Steve has never been much of a fan of all that glass, but sometimes the light hits Tony’s face just right, and his heart roots itself in his throat so tightly that it makes Steve realize that maybe it isn’t that bad at all. 

“Is that a bad thing?” Steve asks, smile pulling at the corners of his mouth. He’s become well-versed in Tony’s particular brand snark, finds it more endearing now than anything. 

Tony scoffs and tilts his head to the side, cheek pressed against the pillow now, eyes trained on the skyline of New York. It’s close to sunset now, and the sky is a delicate mix of blues and reds, dark yellows and deep purples. 

“I’m feeling surprisingly less obstinate than usual,” Tony notes, sliding his arms up under his pillow and closing his eyes, “So I think you’re good. I do want to keep my legs though, maybe move over a little?”

He does, because he can’t say no to Tony, can’t deny him anything in the world. Steve picks up the paintbrush and twirls it between his fingers, deciding on colors, deciding on brushstrokes, until he settles on grey and picks up the palette that is resting on Tony’s sheets. 

The expanse of Tony’s back is his canvas now, smooth skin marked with tiny scars that Steve wants to ask about, but doesn’t. He rests his hand between Tony’s shoulder blades and revels in the way that he shivers from the heat, how the goosebumps spread along the arms he’s folded under his head. 

Tony squirms at the first brush of paint on his skin and wonders why he agreed to this in the first place, because oh, god, that paint is _cold_. Steve quiets him with another kiss to the back of his neck, a thumb stroked across skin of his shoulder blade, and suddenly he forgets about being cold, mostly. 

“What are you painting?” He asks after a while, when Steve’s brushstrokes are picking up and moving in short, measured swipes against his skin. Steve smiles, even though he knows Tony can’t see it, and mixes a little bit of blue into onto his brush. 

“That’s no fun, I can’t tell you,” Steve says. Tony shifts a little, and his brush slips, and Steve taps his shoulder lightly to scold him, “You should guess.” 

Tony snorts, but the noise is cut off when he feels Steve leaning over his back, feels the heat of his skin so close to his own. 

“That would require me to reset my line of thinking to that of someone who _doesn’t_ know everything, and I’m not sure I’m okay with that, Cap.” 

Steve laughs, “You’re impossible.”

“You seem to be doing all right,” Tony mumbles, pushing his face back into the pillow. He’s never been able to stay still for very long, “Seriously, are you going to tell me or not? I’m dying, here.”

“The Brooklyn skyline,” Steve says, and he drags the paintbrush down Tony’s skin in a way that makes him shiver all over, “In the winter, when everything is grey and blue and cold.”

Tony nods as well as he can and Steve smiles, because he’s beautiful in the sunset, and the cloudy blues and rainy greys on his back are bathed in golden light, and Brooklyn looks more alive there on Tony’s skin than Steve thinks it has ever looked since his childhood. 

“Great,” Tony says, snapping him from his thoughts. Steve outlines the roof of a building with thin black lines of paint, lazily but cleanly, with precision, “Are you almost done? Because I am starting to feel grey and blue and cold too, and I’m not about that.”

He chuckles – he can’t help it. Tony does that to him. Steve doesn’t answer him right away, but instead he picks up his palette, mixes purples and pinks into the sky on Tony’s skin to mimic sunset. He thinks about adding the oranges and golds of the setting sun into the landscape, but decides he’ll keep those for himself, keep this moment in his memory, rather than share it with the world in paint. 

Eventually, after Tony starts squirming and Steve’s tired of leaning over him, he puts the palette to the side, sits the paintbrush in the empty slot, and gently moves from Tony’s legs to the spot on the bed beside him. Tony groans, and Steve thinks that he’s going to complain about the paint and the legs and that his neck is sore, but instead he just stretches, curls his legs up like a cat, and rolls his head to the right. 

“Hey,” he says to Steve, and a smile dances at the edges of his mouth.

“Hey yourself,” Steve whispers, and his voice is soft and quiet. Shadows spread across the hardwood flooring of Tony’s room as the sun sets, and he can see the deep blue riding the edge of the horizon. 

Steve reaches out and runs a hand over the line of Tony’s cheekbone. The skin is soft beneath his fingers, nothing like Tony’s rough and calloused palms. Tony closes his eyes, and Steve can see the dark eyelashes flutter, and he leans in and kisses Tony’s lips chastely. 

“I love you,” he whispers when they pull back, and Tony’s eyes flicker back open, “Oh, Tony.”

Tony stares at him. Flecks of gold seem to dance in his eyes, and Steve wonders what they would look like in the New York sunset, lit up by oranges and yellows and the greyness of the shadows. 

He thinks Tony might kiss him, watches the way he leans in towards his mouth, feels the way that his breath ghosts over his lips.

“You going to get this paint off me, or am I sleeping with it on? Because if I see a single drop on these sheets, you’re buying me new ones,” his voice is light and playful, and Steve rolls his eyes with a force that he’s sure Tony finds impressive.

“Let’s shower.”

**Author's Note:**

> [prompt me?](http://starkravingcap.tumblr.com/ask)


End file.
